


Mistletoe Misdemeanour

by Kiwi Stubbly-Punk (cranky__crocus)



Series: Harry Potter Fests '10 [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: hoggywartyxmas, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-04
Updated: 2011-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-05 12:25:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/Kiwi%20Stubbly-Punk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas has come around again with its pesky parasitic pest, Mistletoe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe Misdemeanour

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hoggywartyxmas (Livejournal community) for 2010. More when I've gotten around to re-reading and editing it!

**24 December 1991**

Christmas had rolled around again, the final word before the full stop of New Year’s at the end of that chilly final calendar month December. For the students in symbolised a break from studies, freedom from school, family time, friends and gifts. For many of the staff it meant quieter halls, end-of-semester marking, bickering over the fairies’ lights, nearly tripping over or stumbling into trees of various sizes and, undoubtedly, the consumption of festive merry-making drinks.

The latter phenomenon was currently not stirring any sense of merriment in one Septima Vector.

“Mistletoe is certainly _not_ romantic—anything but, I would argue: and I do!” Septima responded to her colleague with a tone one could only declare ‘acerbic’.

“Ah, and where is your holiday spirit?” the man inquired, not at all daunted by her tone—which was, she decided, rather dire for him as she knew where _his_ holiday spirits were. He was still smiling merrily, cheeks ruddy with his consumption of wine; this newfound confidence was presumably to be blamed on the same. “’tis the night before Christmas, surely the festivities will have filtered in by now! Why even the Ghouls—”

   “A _Ghoul_ is perfectly adept with the living strategy of mistletoe: _parasitic!_ ” No, no, she had _certainly_ had enough Ghoul-talk for the evening; she couldn’t think of a topic more prepared to bore her out of her hat. “They steal the nutrients from trees, they’re toxic to humans—magical and Muggle alike, and Ghouls too, I imagine!—and they’re named for bird droppings on twigs! How, pray tell, do you fantasise romanticising _that_?”

   Lamathel Redhild—or Red _hide_ as Septima preferred presently—offered a loose-lipped grin and summoned a plant with pearly white berries and smooth oval leaves paired off a woody stem; it hung above their heads. Septima understood in an instant that she was about to grow incredibly uncomfortable, for she was intimate enough with Christmastime and once with Pomona Sprout to identify the plant as European Mistletoe. She knew the custom well enough.

   Quick as a nimbus, Septima plucked the plant from the air by its parasitic root and flung it in the opposite direction. The action was accompanied with a scowl as she prepared to form further rude words in her colleague’s direction.

   She felt a hand brush her elbow and stiffened, believing it to be Redhild’s. The voice that spoke was thankfully not his.

   “Ah, Septima! I have been searching for you far and wide; I was hoping for your assistance,” Minerva McGonagall introduced with a conspiratorial lip-twitch in Septima’s direction. When she turned to the Ghouls Studies professor her lips formed a terse smile. “Excuse me, Lamathel; I’m sure you’ll understand. The faeries have formed an unusual numerical display in the main hall trees; Filius believes them to be prophetic in a manner. We would prefer not to consult Sybill as she’s commenced a bit of a caper. I hope you don’t mind my stealing Septima away.”

   “Oh, not at all, Minerva, not at all,” Lamathel answered quickly, shuffling backwards. He raised his hands to emphasise the point of Septima’s free will. “We were up to nothing at all.”

   “As many are during the holidays.” Minerva pressed Septima’s elbow lightly until they were both moving. When they had rounded a corner and Lamathel was no longer within hearing, Minerva chuckled. It was the most festive sound Septima had witnessed that evening. “For all your arguments against mistletoe, Wilhelmina is adamant that a number of birds prefer to nest in them.”

   “Well so can Redhild; he can settle in a nest of parasites until he lays a Ghoul egg,” Septima responded, lips tight as her frown. She shook her head and shoulders, ridding herself of the tension the man had produced. “He is horrid.”

   “I doubt Willa would debate you there,” Minerva replied, close to audible affection. Her eyes, at least, were smiling as she steadied Septima with a hand to her shoulder. “You’re free for the moment. Escape to do as you please.”

   “You mean there _aren’t_ numeric faeries to be analysed?” Septima jested, the glimpse of a grin forming with the spike in her mood. “And here I was at last softening to the festivities.”

   “That is very good news,” Minerva remarked with unreadable features, “for it appears we’ve been followed.”

   Septima stiffened, expecting the stalker to be Redhild; instead, Minerva halted the mistletoe floating toward them with one finger. It halted above their heads. The woman plucked one round pearl of a berry from the plant—she ignored its giggle—and held it between them.

   Minerva leaned in close enough that Septima caught the scent of her robes—parchment and tea leaves, today—and Septima’s abdomen clenched in anticipation. At last Minerva pressed a kiss to her cheek, leaned back and fully smiled, bright-eyed and warm: a true gift. “Merry Christmas, Septima.”

   “Thank you and Merry Christmas, Minerva.”

   Minerva nodded and parted ways, probably heading back to her office, a pile of parchments, a full kettle of tea and a few disappointed huffs. Septima preferred to think the woman was headed to the bath or grounds—anywhere _relaxing_ , as the Deputy Headmistress deserved.

She blushed and pressed two fingers to her cheek, then rolled her eyes at her behaviour. Honestly. She felt a student again; but she had enough work to prove otherwise, and she thought it was as good a time as any to remind herself of her place in life.

And here Rolanda is rumoured to be the charmer, Septima mused as she walked the corridors to her office. She wasn’t at all convinced of _that_.

 

 

Minerva and Septima dined together that evening, sharing stories and laughter over wine and a meal. It was the first of many evenings to come.

            Septima found Minerva to be excellent company, providing surprising warmth given her guarded nature in the staff room—or perhaps only Septima felt that warmth. Regardless, they had student antics to chuckle or groan over, lives to discuss in minimal detail and limited sentimentality and futures to consider with a delicate combination of humoured dread and dreadful humour.

            She lost count of her smiles around Minerva, which surprised her given her tendency to count things and the determination with which she often guarded her smiles.

            Noting this, Septima was not so surprised when a year later—around Christmastime—her hair was tumbling down between Minerva’s fingers and they were both tumbling into tartan sheets.

            Septima was merely grateful their heated kisses were not inspired by a tipsy Ghoul-minded man and his semi-parasitic plant, but by their own Firewhisky tongues and festive lust. And oh, how Minerva had a tongue to match her charm!

 

 

 

 

**25 December 1994**

Moonlight and stars shone in through a windowpane, light caressing the gently sloping sides of a metallic ornament. Within the ornament was a collection of stars and planets, each stationary or circling at various paces; some were solitary, others were paired or grouped. It looked like delicate clockwork and, to Aurora, that was precisely its function.

            She sat in her lengthy tattered arm chair and stared up at the device; it told her the date, the time and the pull of planetary designs.

            Christmas, eight o’clock in the evening: the precise start of the Yule Ball, the first in two hundred years.

            She was no astrologer—as an astronomer, she scoffed at the suggestion—but she did have a nagging suspicion that she would be made uncomfortable this evening, if she so chose to attend. She deducted this from a number of her conclusions: faculty and spirits (even of the chaste holiday variety) had the potential to end in disaster; Alastor Moody had as of late showcased a wandering eye; and Madam Malkin had clearly cut her new dress robes too tight.

            It looked as though she had two dark moons cresting above her bust line, for Saturn’s sake! And if her hindered breathing was any indication, she had been forced into the shape of an hourglass independent of her will, which would have preferred more subtle curvature. She glanced down at her robes and frowned, running her lips against her teeth.

            At last Aurora stood and walked to her vanity. Her form reflected too extreme for her; to soften its look she removed her necklace of the planets from the wooden surface and latched it beneath her hair. It rested neatly above the globes of her bust and hid some of the shapes from immediate view. She felt immediately more comfortable.

            Aurora grasped a lowball glass from the stand by her chair and sipped it, gazing at the reflection in her mirror. The cosmic sweet cocktail—a creation of hers—range truer to her than her won reflection. She pursed her lips at the woman in the looking glass; at least with the expression she looked more herself.

            As an afterthought she levitated her ornate but slim sun diadem, polished and beloved. A family heirloom would put her at ease.

            With another look at her star clock, Aurora concluded without guilt that someone always had to be fashionably late to the party. This year it would be she.

 

 

Within an hour, Aurora Sinistra felt profoundly uncomfortable. This was primarily due to the fact that Alastor Moody was standing on her toe and secondarily due to his proximity and speech.

            “That is, er, a nice dress,” he stated; his gruffness, to her, diminished the compliment. That and the hunch that, though he had looked away, she believed his magicked eye—on the far side of his nose—was still staring at her bust. It was perturbing enough already, but the idea that he could do it through his own head plainly spooked her.

            Regardless, she responded with cool gratitude, “Thank you, Alastor.”

            She had hoped, somehow, this would remove his foot from her toes; she didn’t wish to embarrass the pair of them by pointing it out.

            “I’ve only one left foot, but haven’t a proper right to my name either.” He captured a quick look of Aurora and stared straight out at the dancing body once more. “Can still dance as I did, which was never well, but would you like to dry?”

            Aurora blanched. She took a breath. “Dancing?”

            “Dragon-slaying.” Moody shrugged and gestured at Filch, who was dancing with a cat. “’m better’n a pussy-cat and I don’t shed.”

            “I’m not much of a dancer—”

            “And the cat is? Or, for that matter, Filch? Looks an animated scarecrow, that one. Even Hagrid’s at it with that giant mistress of his, threatening an earthquake on all of us.”

            Aurora, feeling thoroughly out of her options, merely nodded her head in one quick little gesture. Moody had been looking away at the time, but seemed to have seen the signal anyway, which only proved to strengthen Aurora’s conclusion. Unfortunately, it also strengthened Alastor’s conviction.

 

 

Aurora would not have professed to being a good dancer in the best of circumstances, but a wood-footed man she found rather unnerving was far from the best of times indeed. She was used to watching the skies, not her feet.

            She had to admit she was surprisingly light of foot this evening, hopping nervously through the two-step dance to avoid Alastor’s wooden leg. Aurora was knocked a few times on the toes when she misjudged. It was not the easiest of dancing situations, which greatly diminished the otherwise pleasant Yule Ball atmosphere.

            Aurora sent a pleading look as Pomona Sprout danced by with Flitwick; they were both laughing uproariously as Filius danced upon her feet. They looked to be having a darling time. Pommy, no help at all, merely sent Aurora a wink; she vowed to get her friend back for this. If Wilhelmina or Rolanda had been in attendance she would have been freed in an instant.

            A familiar woman danced by in the arms of a burly blonde man—Ludo Bagman, that was his name; Aurora often forgot it, for she despised him enough to remove him from her memory. She did a double take when she recognised prim, proper, ‘won’t deal with your dragon dung’ with a temper to match, Minerva McGonagall.

            Pain flared at her toes; once again, she had misjudged Alastor’s next step and it had ended on her foot. She hissed but turned the sound into a sigh and tried to smile through the jolt.

            “Catchy tune,” she murmured, trying to incorporate anything that might make her feel less awkward and less sadly sixteen.

            “One of my favourites,” Alastor acknowledged, which was a nice enough point when stated but his breath against Aurora’s face was less than pleasant; he smelled of the rankest foodstuff. She wondered what on earth he could be eating: leeches?

            Just as she thought she could hide her disgust no longer and would receive no reprieve from this man, a hand touched her elbow—a hand that was thankfully not one of Moody’s.

            “May I cut in?” a lilting voice arrived at Aurora’s ear and she shivered at the divine divergence from Moody’s grating grunts.

            Moody, not surprisingly, grunted his assent and moved to accommodate Minerva, expecting the request was for him. He looked surprised for all of a second when Minerva instead took Aurora’s hand in her own and placed another on the woman’s cinched waist.

            Ludo Bagman appeared equally astounded, for he was left with one hand still lifted, which only seconds before had held Minerva’s; he dropped it to his side. When he and Moody met eyes, they shifted uncomfortably and moved away, each too uncomfortable with the other male’s presence to remain even around their previous dance partners.

            Aurora chuckled. “That was absolutely brilliant. Your dulcet tones have saved me again.”

            “You are too kind, Aurora; I was merely doing what any person of morals should when she sees a colleague in distress enough to turn disgusted.”

            “You may do well to inform Pomona of that,” Aurora retorted with a grin, cutting her eyes to the gleefully dancing woman. Regardless, she was merely happy to be near to smiles once more. “Do you think he swallows gravel to achieve that sound?”

            “I’ve known him many years, and I know he does not; he merely smoked five times the amount Willa does and was a little too cosy with Ogden’s Own.” Minerva lifted her hand to brush some fake snow from Aurora’s high cheek bone; Aurora smiled into the touch.

            “Thank you for rescuing this damsel in distress,” she bantered, leading into a South African quick two-stepping dance as the music accelerated. She knew Minerva could handle it, and she did—with considerably more grace than one might expect.

            “You are a damsel, and you were in distress, but let us not combine those two, hmm?” Minerva smiled slowly down at her companion. When Minerva chuckled, Aurora felt the depth of it hit her in surprising locations—she blamed it on the earlier cosmic sweetness. Minerva explained, “Alastor is one of the rare few who can create an association between damsel and distress in women otherwise capable of standing on their own two feet—if you forgive my use of the term.”

            Aurora laughed and immediately felt relieved; she felt less embarrassed as one of many. She blinked and grinned slowly, her head tilting with the unhurried bearing of her teeth. “You sure sound wise in this area.”

            Minerva chuckled again and looked away, glancing at Alastor before her gaze slipped back to Aurora. “I believe the children have a phrase that sums it up rather well: it ‘takes one to know one,’ if I recall correctly?”

            The laughter that overcame Aurora then was more forceful than she could remember for some time, perhaps back to the freedom of summer holidays and pressure-free stargazing from open hilltop meadows. On a whim, she pressed herself to Minerva in a hug, grasping the woman close in an attempt to express her deepest gratitude—for the help when she needed it, and for the disclosure of something personal to ease Aurora’s mind.

            Minerva, for all that she never outwardly seemed the embracing type as Pomona was, smiled softly and leaned into the hold, rubbing Aurora’s back softly through the thin dress robe fabric. Aurora believed she felt a kiss between her cornrows, but wasn’t sure for she felt aflame with the touch of Minerva to her front and the feel of a hand circling right above her back. She barely heard Minerva’s whispers.

            “He’s different now. Your discomfort is more merited than mine was; whoever the man I knew was, he’s far gone now.” The whisper was sad and low, but when Minerva stepped back and into the dance once more, she was schooling her features back into the barest hint of a smile. She swallowed and spoke. “Regardless, he has clearly forgotten the skill of a cat in dance; shall we?”

            For the first night of her life, Aurora Sinistra felt like a good dancer in the best of circumstances.

 

 

In the evening, Minerva confided that Aurora could compete with Rosmerta when it came to the cocktail ‘Cosmic Sweet’. After she had finished two, she confessed that Aurora could equally compete—and most probably top—Rosmerta when it came to a friendly top shelf.

            Minerva even blushed to think of Aurora topping Rosmerta in any sense. Aurora nearly lost her drunk laughing, caught between her amusement and arousal at Minerva’s statement and uncharacteristic blush.

            In the end she went with both, laughingly lunging to press her lips to Minerva’s and smiling into them once their lips were connected. Minerva gasped, only once, before she was back on her game—perhaps she wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of first moves, Aurora mused.

            Minerva, Aurora decided, topped Rosmerta in the bedroom absolutely—not that she was one to complain on any front—yet she wondered just how much had been picked up from the woman herself.

            Aurora learned that Minerva could grow just as hoarse without swallowing gravel or embracing an intimate relationship with Ogden; equally, Aurora ascertained that it was endlessly more attractive coming from Minerva.

            When the coming was through, Aurora lounged near her partner and traced planetary patterns on the woman’s hip. Minerva’s eyes were closed and gave her features a certain look of unending beauty: peaceful, unperturbed, glowing. Her cheeks were touched with red and her breasts journeyed up and back with her slow, measured breaths.

            Aurora stirred and smiled; her voice was soft as Saturn. “I would be honoured to do this another time, if you feel the same.”

            “A tumbler of cosmic sweetness and I’m always yours,” Minerva responded slowly, eyelids still softly shut. Somehow, Aurora could tell those eyes were smiling with the hint of curve to Minerva’s lips. Aurora touched her own to the hint of smile and luxuriated in the festive winter warmth with a smile of her own.

            “Good. Cosmic love is my specialty.”

            As she heard the soft snort of amusement, Aurora turned to watch the magicked stars and planets of her ceiling. She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the timepiece on her windowpane. Even upside-down, she witnessed that the time was fast approaching dawn lights and the fashionably-late party member had stayed the course.

 

 

The course, it seemed, held many nights of passion—some more inebriated than others—between Aurora and Minerva. They never spoke of exclusivity or mentioned the dreaded ‘r’ word, which pleased Aurora just as well. Tongues and lips were often suited to better things than long conversations to clarify what needed no clarification.

            Yet still, they were not the youngest of women in the castle, and some evenings they desired company between the two without the physicality. Those evenings they spoke on many topics, from the sky to changes and all in-between.

             Aurora was surprised by how bare she let herself be stripped—much more a feat to feel conversationally than physically, and one that left her ever more impressed with Minerva McGonagall with every passing month.

 

 

 

 

**7 December 1995**

 

Wilhelmina always held an appearance of serenity and comfort when she sat sipping old Scottish whisky by the fire, feet up on the ottoman and a mirthful smile beginning to toy with her lips. Aurora envied the sense of peace but would never wish to steal it from her friend, even if it were possible. Knowing Willa, she’d just nurse it right back to health, same as Pomona would re-grow hers. Perhaps that was why Aurora settled around these people.

            “So you’ve been seeing Minerva, hmm?” Willa inquired, that hint of a grin shared between her lips and eyes. Aurora thought it might be a bit juvenile to throw the nearest cushion at the woman, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t tempted. Wilhelmina could ask so much with one question—imply so much truth—that it simply wasn’t fair sometimes: certainly not even conversational grounds.

            Aurora thought she might toy with it for a moment, if only to hold out against Willa’s already-pristine understanding of the situation. She merely answered, “Yes.”

            Alas, her smile to her lips had given away much more than her simple word.

            “’s it enough?” Wilhelmina pondered, sipping from her tumbler and watching Aurora over the glass.

            Aurora sighed and finished her own drink, placing the glass on the three-legged table and falling back against well-worn cushioning. “Minerva is the moon: I feel her pull at my tides and I pull her close in return; it is nice and I have valued our times. Minerva is not the sun.”

            Wilhelmina nodded and finished her own drinking. She gave a pat to her pocket, habit after so many years of a post-drink smoke; her hand stilled over the opening and rested, as did the rest of her. She watched her friend, no pressure and no expectance, only friendly regard and understanding. “Looking for your sun?”

            The question shoot through Aurora’s stomach; the idea sent spindles through her limbs and warmed her from toe to top. She found she couldn’t answer in words immediately, as it had opened a door in her mind she had sealed many years before. She bit her lip.

            “What planet survives without a sun?”

            Aurora read the depth of understanding in Wilhelmina’s eyes, but the woman responded with relieving humour, “Wouldn’t know; always been more of an asteroid myself.”

 

 

Septima was awake early, far too early for her own comfort. She was awake before the sun, which didn’t settle well with her. Her clock read three in the morning; she thought this was an incredibly ridiculous time to be awake when there was no prompting for it.

            She plaited her hair and grumbled to herself about insomnia. Her stomach grumbled right back up at her. It dawned her that yes, she and Minerva had enjoyed a dinner date the evening before, but they had apparently forgotten to eat. Minerva had left for her quarters after ‘dessert’ and Septima had drifted into peaceful sleep.

            Septima acquiesced to the knowledge that her peaceful sleep was through. She slipped into her dressing gown, tied the cord around her waist and stepped into the corridor to follow it to the kitchen.

            She was passing the entrance to the Hufflepuff domain when she thought she heard steps rounding the corner at the other end. Upon seeing and hearing nothing further, Septima continued walking.

            The pear was particularly stubborn this strange morning-evening-time; she couldn’t tell which it felt like, but she could tell this pear was looking for far more tickles than it ever previously desired. She wondered if this was its equivalent to a midnight snack. She continued tickling, blushing as her finger movements against the painting brought back images from the night before.

            “If you stroke it, you’ll get in faster,” an entertained voice instructed from her side. She jumped, for she had not heard or seen the approach of Rolanda Hooch.

            Septima turned, brow raised, and gazed at the Brooms Mistress from head to toe. “You expect me to believe a perverse pear is keeping me from the kitchen?”

            Rolanda took surprising care in gently grasping Septima’s hand and altering her motions into one of a gentle stroke from the pear’s stem to its round bottom. It sighed delightedly and the door opened. Rolanda released the woman’s hand and grinned. “You learn a few tricks when you’re a night-owl in this castle. It would have kept you another three minutes tickling away, getting louder with each giggle.”

            Septima shook her head, lingering between crankiness and amusement, and stepped into the warm kitchen. Three of the house elves were playing cards at a miniature table in the corner; they hurried to her.

            “Does miss be wanting a meal?” one enthusiastic elf inquired; he epitomised the phrase ‘bright eyes and bushy tail’ despite that he possessed only the former.

            “I’ll be fine to get it myself, but thank you for the offer,” Septima replied gently, for she made it a point never to upset the beings upon which her stomach and taste buds depended. The elves bowed out of sight, but the peculiar sensation of being watched did not abate.

 

 

Rolanda was grinning as they both sat nibbling (Septima) or chomping (Rolanda) on sandwiches stuffed with leftovers. Rolanda washed her latest hippogriff-sized bite down with a fair wash of elf-made wine, which she had charmed from them in a display that seemed familiar to both parties. She had poured Septima a glass as well.

            “Whispers in the staffroom tell me you and Minerva have been enjoying each other’s company,” Rolanda commented without judgment, sipping again from her glass.

            Septima did her best to banish the colour from her cheeks; she blamed the leftover tint on the wine. “We have.”

            They ate in silence for a few moments. It seemed Rolanda was attempting to keep her questions to herself. However, Septima knew a fellow Ravenclaw would never manage such a feat: a Ravenclaw without a question was like an equation without numbers.

            “Long-term?” Rolanda murmured at last—quiet, almost intentionally slurred. She clearly understood the two were merely acquaintances and the question was more personal than ordinary dinner chat, but it was half-three in the morning and that firm partition Septima ordinarily kept between herself and any other had begun to waver.

            “Perhaps, but not in the way one might imagine.”

            “Romance?”

            Septima shook her head. She took a rather un-lady-like swill of her wine, which brought out Rolanda’s charming smile.

            “With Minerva,” Rolanda responded, slow to say her colleague’s name, “You needn’t say more; I understand.” She paused and fingered the last bite of her sandwich, gazing straight at Septima. “Are you _looking_ for more?”

            “Not actively,” Septima responded. Her voice was softer, more hesitant than she had intended or even expected; she detected a trace of hope. She sighed and took another bite, chewing forcefully.

            Rolanda seemed to be out of questions. Septima was merely relieved. At least she could count on the knowledge that a Ravenclaw would always be satisfied with answers.

 

 

The staffroom was warm and toasty the next day, teasing the teachers with the pre-emptive feel of festivities long before their work was done. In some, it inspired a sense of proactivity, in the hopes that it would bring the break ever closer or would drive the students and frustrations away; in others, it fostered only a sense of sedated laziness and yielding to the understanding that everything would feel sluggish as the holidays only tip-toed nearer, tantalising all the way.

            Minerva, upon entering the staff room, hurried straight to the kitchen nook and set the kettle to boil. She arranged her tea, wand in hand, while scrawling a list of obligations with her free hand.

            Rolanda, who was settled into a fireside armchair with a glass of pumpkin juice, nudged her head in Minerva’s direction and grinned at Wilhelmina, who was seated opposite. Wilhelmina at least appeared to be marking, although the dawdling pace of her quill brought one to question the attention she was applying to her activity.

            “Busy as ever, Minerva?” Rolanda questioned, lifting her cup in a gesture of goodwill toward her colleague and friend.

            “And how could I be anything but? Essays to mark, events to organise, letters to write and you _know_ what my dreadful Gryffindors get up to around Christmas. I haven’t enough eyes to watch them all and meet my own deadlines.”

            “They’d be shocked to hear you have deadlines,” Wilhelmina quipped—although it seemed less slow, with the unhurried pace of her speech; they knew the speed of her mind, however. “One student asked what I was reading and gasped when I told him I was researching.”

            “Oh, certainly, why ever would an educator have to research to teach?” Minerva riposted, giving up on her own hand and guiding her quill with her wand. She appeared to relax immediately when she had a mug of tea in her grasp.

            The others chuckled until it fell off into companionable silence, Wilhelmina actively applying herself to her marking.

 

 

Rolanda sighed and set the student-drawn diagrams aside. She had told her students no, their artistic talents were not marked, but their effort was; clearly many had decided they could mask neglected efforts with contrived artistic ineptitude. She subscribed to the latter category of holiday-approaching-disorder staff.

            Minerva seemed lost in her latest student essay, which looked cramped and long enough to be Hermione Granger’s. If that was true, Minerva was likely in a universal sphere very different from Rolanda and Wilhelmina’s.

            “Willa. About Aurora…” Rolanda cut her eyes to Minerva, then back to the other woman. Questions reigned in her gaze.

            “Ro, you don’t fool me: you already have this planned to a fault. It’s only ever my hope you will enlighten me before your plan unfurls.”

            The two shared a look. On Rolanda’s side, mischief and joy at the idea of a successful solution; on Wilhelmina’s side, resigned and entertained yielding to a force beyond her control—as this friendship had taught her. With their eyes on each other, they did not notice Minerva inspecting them rather shrewdly over the quill leaning against her chin.

            “You two. You’re up to something. You have the look of my devious Gryffindors—I’m acutely attuned to it now, there’s no escape—and I want to know whatever you’re not telling me.” She turned to Rolanda first, but then quickly swivelled to take in Wilhelmina. “You know I will get it out of you eventually. Do save yourself the trouble.”

            Wilhelmina shrugged her shoulders and pointed a finger at Rolanda. “She’s the witch behind the curtain.”

            Minerva’s gaze was intense: it could have spooked a student on impact, but Rolanda had known it for years and responded with a grin.

            “Only because it’s Christmas,” she capitulated. With occasional assistance from Wilhelmina, she explained the castle’s endless rumours, their recent conversations and the plan Rolanda’s wily mind had concocted.

            “You make me out to be a philanderer, you hornbills!” Minerva objected when the speech was through.

            Rolanda’s only response was the subtle quirk of an eyebrow.

            “Oh, do look in a mirror,” Minerva riposted, but her frown softened into a smile and they knew in an instant that Gryffindor students weren’t the only people to mind at the arrival of infectious winter spirit.

 

 

 

 

**25 December 1995**

At last the day had come: the staff Yule party. The festive feel was no longer pre-emptive, but upon them all in full blast. Some regarded the event much as they would a Blast-Ended Skrewt’s blasted end: wearily, cautiously and often with great contempt. Others took to it like the Gregario Bell Butterfly, or the ‘social butterfly’: gathering in groups of any number with ample sounds, song, colour and often drama.

            Minerva, at these gatherings, was awfully fond of the punch table—although with the students gone, it served a greater punch. She had dropped her Gillywater for something more exciting.

            “Is that Schletters?” Aurora inquired as she sidled up beside Minerva, who nodded and gestured at the bottle behind her. Aurora poured a tumbler of the whisky.

            On her other side, equally drawn to her presence, Septima stood with her fingers to her chin deciding between Quintin Black—for special occasions—and her Phoenix Port, her traditional favourite.

            Minerva sipped and stared ahead, catching the gazes of Wilhelmina and Rolanda, who were standing in unit a few metres away. Mistletoe appeared between the two when Pomona walked by, whistling.

Minerva gripped the wand in her pocket and summoned the plant to her, all the while feeling the cool glass of her drink against her lips. She nearly laughed when she saw her two friends performing a caricature of a witch-picture romance, but merely coughed and used it as an excuse to take another sip.

            The mistletoe floated above her. Aurora had finished gathering her drink and saw the plant coming to a halt above Minerva’s head, seemingly out of nowhere and with no summoning. Septima had at last chosen to embrace the occasion with some Quintin Black and also saw the mistletoe come to a halt above her latest partner.

              Aurora and Septima smiled.

            Minerva grinned.

            “Minerva, Rolanda’s insulted your honour again!” Wilhelmina called, nudging the ‘offending’ woman with her shoulder.

            “Ro, I’ll transfigure you into a pair of socks!” Minerva answered back, walking swiftly over to the pair. She left the suggestive plant, the table and its visitors behind.

 

 

Perhaps it was due to who had been standing beneath the mistletoe just before, but the eyes with which she looked upon the new female before her were significantly changed from ordinary term-time views.

            Septima Vector stood before her, but this Septima smiled wider than she had witnessed before—with a flush of surprise and embarrassment, which flushed her cheeks as well.

            Aurora knew the signs and feelings of attraction well enough, and here beneath the mistletoe, she recollected them all in a flash of heat. She smiled.

 

 

Septima had expected to glance down from the now-stationary mistletoe to find Minerva, but after some statement she didn’t catch, she found someone new beneath the odd seven-berried plant.

            She gasped and found herself embarrassed but smiling anyway when she caught Aurora Sinistra’s eyes under the mistletoe.

            Sinistra was surprised by the immediate draw she felt and smiled, surprised and amused that mistletoe had once again brought her to this place. She was generally not one for nerves, but she found herself experiencing them now.

            “The mistletoe has seven berries,” Septima commented, glancing up. Seven was special; she felt silly for expressing it. She was relieved when the statement was met with an understanding smile.

            “The berries must not be ripe yet—Pomona tells me they are pearly like the moon when they’re ripe, but these are yellow like the sun.”

            Septima was overwhelmed with her immediate sense of comfort. “The sun has nine planets—a very fortunate arrangement, mathematically.”

            “And astronomically!”

            Above them, a yellow bird with long sparkling tail feathers took flight from within the mistletoe; it soared over the room and up to the corner of the roof, where it disappeared. One glistening yellow feather floated down, landing on Septima’s head; Aurora plucked it off with great care.

            While her hand was up, she touched one round yellow berry. She smiled tenderly down. “I won’t pluck it, for seven is sacred, but…shall we?”

            Septima, comforted in the knowledge that her environment was accepting, leaned in to meet Aurora’s lips.

            The echo of the sun-bird’s call merged with the winter music.

 

 

“I told you birds love it,” Wilhelmina told her friends.

            “Birds love _you_ ,” Rolanda answered as she reached around Minerva to give a playful smack to the back of Willa’s dress-robes, right above her bottom; Rolanda allowed her hand to rest on Minerva’s hip as it journeyed back.

            Minerva bumped it off with a shimmy but her smile diminished the sense of rejection. She turned to the two of them.

            “It seems that with Pomona, we’ve succeeded in our mistletoe misdemeanour.”

            Rolanda grinned. “Minerva, the mistletoe meddler.”

            “I am not the witch behind the curtain,” Minerva responded immediately, batting at Ro’s hand.

            “Would you like to be a witch behind our curtain?” Ro questioned, her voice dropping as the jest left her voice.

            Minerva turned to Wilhelmina, who smiled and nodded.

            “Sure. It’s Christmas.”

            “Merry Christmas!” Rolanda hooted, grinning from ear to ear once more. Wilhelmina nudged her hip, but was chuckling as well.

            “Merry Christmas,” she and Minerva said together.

            It seemed the mistletoe was fast to follow Septima and Aurora wherever they stepped, but the two didn’t appear to mind. Most of the staff didn’t see them slip away to go count stars, but those who did witnessed it with a festive and full smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :D


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